


& i'll follow you into the dark

by toomuchsky



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Multi, and also part song fic w blagden's i'll follow you into the dark, and enjolras & co are like ridiculously radical tumblr sjws, the one where grantaire is an jaded ex activist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-14 16:32:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3417713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchsky/pseuds/toomuchsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grantaire snorts, quietly. But it happens just as there’s a lull in the soft indie music Musain has playing on its speakers, so everyone hears it – including golden haired Apollo and his motley crew of pastel haired do-gooders."</p><p>Or, the one where Grantaire is a jaded ex-activist and Enjolras + co are the embodiment of tumblr's echo chamber effect, re: <a href="http://toomuchsky.tumblr.com/post/110912392279/i-have-this-headcanon-that-enjolras-his-friends">this post</a> I made on tumblr.</p><p>Blagden's cover of I'll Follow You Into the Dark makes an appearance later because I'm trash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit, this is finally up.
> 
> Huge, HUUUUGGEEEE shoutout to my friends [Camille](http://sternbilder.tumblr.com/) for taking my hand and guiding me through my descent into les amis hell and [Steph](http://easycomfort.tumblr.com/) for staying up with me for hours while I screamed "why doesn't this sound right holy shit dissect every single part of my writing with me." They can probably take more credit for this than I could, to be honest.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy, and let me know what you think!

**i.**

In retrospect, Grantaire really should have left Café Musain as soon as the group walked in – they come in with a rush of cold air, loud and bright, rainbow colored outfits indicating that they were coming straight from the Pride Parade happening downtown today.

His jaw twitches, the point of his pen pressing a little too hard into his sketchbook and leaving a large, inky, blot in the middle of his figure drawing homework that he’s going to end up scowling at until he hands it in. It doesn’t help that the large group – there’s about 10 of them – sits at a table directly next to him, talking loudly about the perils of coffee that isn’t fair trade on developing countries’ economic growth, and somehow tying that into the ethics of self-driving cars. Grantaire won’t pretend to understand.

He tries to drown them out by turning up the volume on his music and tapping the beat out on his jeans for a slower, acoustic cover of the song he’s been working on for weeks.

Okay, yeah. An art major who plays guitar and wears beanies and has tattoos and hangs out at coffee shops – Grantaire is aware that he is a walking, talking cliché. He’s not proud of it. (Okay, he’s a little proud of it. There’s little that Grantaire does well, and if fitting the stereotype of ‘unwashed burnout who smokes too much pot’ is one of those things, well goddamn, he’ll take what he can get.)

Turning up his music doesn’t work. Angrily scribbling out sketches of other people in the café - the annoyed purse of a woman’s lips as she drinks coffee she clearly hates, the bags under the eyes of a college aged student, the set of a man’s shoulders in his suit as he shouts angrily on the phone heedless of the annoyance of everyone around him - doesn’t work, either. He grits his teeth and surrenders to the inevitable as he shifts his position in his chair slightly so he can look over the group, noting idly that they’re talking about police brutality in minority communities now.

He had been almost right – 9 of them, looking like a goddamn diversity brochure for a university, all of them wearing their respective LGBT colors on their wrists (Grantaire had known exactly what the flags stood for at one point, a lifetime ago) and sporting pastel dyed hair and shirts that said “in space no one can hear you insist there are only two genders.”

The one that really catches his eye, though, embarrassingly, is the pasty white boy in the center of the group, who’s obviously the leader. Not in any overtly discernible way, but in the way that he looks around at the group as if holding court – how everyone looks to him as soon as he opens his mouth as if they know that whatever he says will be important. 

His blonde hair gleams in the sunlight that comes pouring through the café’s floor to ceiling windows – one of the many reasons Grantaire loves coming here so much – as if the sunlight had solidified into each and every single one of his curls, and Grantaire notices that three of his fingernails are painted black as he runs his hand through them.

And then he starts  _ talking  _ and Grantaire doesn’t even care what he’s  _ saying _ because Grantaire’s hair almost stands on  _ end  _ and the entire atmosphere of the room changes when he speaks. He pitches it low and fast and it’s infused with so much  _ passion  _ and  _ energy  _ it’s almost  _ palpable  _ and Grantaire can feel his pulse rising by just the  _ way  _ he says things even if he doesn’t care about  _ what  _ he’s saying – it’s addictive and Grantaire wants another hit as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, Grantaire starts actually listening to what he’s saying, and of course the dude ruins it all when he agrees with someone’s point about police brutality by saying, “White cops are shit,” while nodding aggressively. “More people of color in the force would mitigate police brutality, and that should be our top priority.”

Grantaire snorts, quietly. But it happens just as there’s a lull in the soft indie music Musain has playing on its speakers, so everyone hears it – including golden haired Apollo and his motley crew of pastel haired do-gooders.

The whole table turns to face him. Grantaire resists the urge to flinch, but can’t help hunching his shoulders a little, before squaring them again and telling himself he’d been here before and could do it again.

He half expects - hopes desperately - for them to just carry on their conversation as if nothing had happened, perhaps not wanting to get into an argument with a complete stranger in the middle of a coffee shop. Of course, his luck is shit as always, and so that doesn’t happen.

“Excuse me? Do you have something to say?” Apollo says, sunlight still dripping from his hair, making Grantaire itch to draw him with a fuzzy halo. He takes a second to mourn all the money he’ll waste on red and gold paint after this encounter.

Grantaire makes himself shrug.

“No, really, you seem to disagree with me on something. I’d like to know what.”

It takes Grantaire a second – though really, he should have known this would happen – to realize they’re being this hostile because they think he’s against them. Well, he is, but they probably think it’s because he’s racist or pro-police brutality or some bullshit like that, because he remembers what it was like to believe that if someone didn’t agree with you that meant they were automatically the enemy.

So he shrugs off his headphones and mentally gears himself up for a conversation he doesn’t want to be having, talking to his sketchbook so he doesn’t have to look at them - at  _ him  _ \- as he’s saying the words. “First of all, dude, you’re a white guy. Like pasty white boy white boy. You -  _ ugh,  _ oh my god, you can’t just go around saying things like ‘white cops are shit’ to seem radical and cool and, like, fucking  _ edgy  _ or whatever when you’re  _ literally drenched _ in privilege.” His voice almost squeaks at the end he’s talking so fast. 

He takes a minute to savor Apollo’s shocked silence, and then continues because apparently he just cannot keep his damn mouth shut. He can’t look over at their table - doesn’t trust himself to be able to continue otherwise. “Second, have you ever even  _ looked  _ at the goddamn data surrounding building, you know, like -  _ trust  _ between police forces and communities of color? Or are you just spouting things you’ve seen on the internet without fucking actually fact checking? All of the data  _ that exists  _ points to there being no relationship between the - the amount of police violence and the demographics of the police force itself.  _ It’s not just white cops _ .”

Grantaire’s hands are shaking. He starts picking at the skin around his nails involuntarily.  He’d never wanted to be back here – yelling at a fakey liberal white dude who thought that just because he reblogged a couple of posts on Tumblr and signed a couple of petitions on Change.org he’d done his part in changing the world.

People like Apollo didn’t understand – no matter how many protests you stood in the cold holding signs during, no matter how many angry letters you wrote to your congressman, or how many people you unfriended on Facebook after furious comment wars, the very best that you could hope for is only that more people would be aware of the status quo, which would never actually change unless someone else with more power and more authority swooped in and took over your cause.

Grantaire’s stomach is churning. He can’t stop picking at his nails, ripping skin off painfully.

He looks over at the group sitting next to him, and has to look away almost immediately. Apollo’s brown eyes are burning – it’s like looking into the sun. The rest of his pastel haired companions don’t seem too thrilled that their leader was called out on his shit either, though some of them are looking at Grantaire with a sort of curiosity that makes him uncomfortable.

He notices his cuticles are bleeding, and wishes, not for the first time, that he’d thought to bring bandaids with him. He really needs to start carrying them around.

“What’s your source?” Apollo asks, voice tight.

Grantaire wants to laugh. Or die, whichever. He didn’t want to be having this conversation anymore. He shrugs. “Never mind.” He starts packing up his things. He can’t stay here anymore – can’t be around the sunlight drenched wannabe activist with a literal halo and a voice that can cut straight into your core, coax it into  _ awakening.  _ He wants to go back to sleep. Preferably forever.

“He makes a valid point, Enjolras,” the black guy sitting next to Apollo says quietly, pushing up his glasses.

“Can’t argue with Combeferre on this one,” the kid on the other side of him agrees readily, nodding at Combeferre while throwing an arm around Apollo’s shoulders in a way that seemed casual and friendly but was probably meant more to placate him.

Apollo – Enjolras – blinks at his friends. He looks so caught off-guard it’s almost adorable. Grantaire can’t help snorting again, earning himself another glare from everyone at the table.

He puts up his hands, pausing in his packing to give them all a ‘Who, me?’ look. He shoves his backpack on, downs the rest of his coffee, and turns to leave.

“Wait!” someone from the group with shockingly pink hair and East Asian features says. “What’s your name?”

Grantaire’s mouth goes dry. He doesn’t want to tell them. He already feels vulnerable and naked after his outburst and he  _ doesn’t want to _ . He shoves his headphones in his ears, pretends he hadn’t heard the question, and walks out of Musain, having completed only half the work he’d gone in there to do.

He texts Eponine as soon as he’s out of the café.  _ help, _ is all he says.

Eponine, darling that she is, simply replies,  _ we’re all at home. come back we’re drinking ourselves stupid and marius is about to do karaoke. _

And if Grantaire ends up mumbling about  _ fiery eyed crusaders who are so wrong it’s disgusting but it’s not like I care obviously because I don’t it’s just – can’t someone tell him how stupid he is? How stupid and futile it all is? Doesn’t he understand? Can I make him understand, Eponine?  _ on Cosette’s - Eponine's? Marius'? it hardly mattered anyway - lap after his fifth shot of vodka, well. It’s not like anyone has to know.

Grantaire wakes up the next day on the couch with a massive hangover and an eight o’clock class. He walks over to the kitchen blearily to make himself coffee in a thermos before marching his way up to campus. One of the perks of being an art student is that everyone practically expected him to show up in the same clothes for a week – it’s a uniform they all wear with every bit of sardonic pride that comes from being too broke to have enough change for even a single load of laundry between all of them.

He’s looking at emails on his phone as he’s walking, so he jumps, startled, when he sees Marius in the kitchen, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes as he tries futilely to keep himself awake.

“Dude, did you even sleep last night?”

Marius shakes his head, hands quivering as he gulps down more of his coffee, staring at the cup for a second as if he doesn’t remember what it is, before jolting himself out of his stupor to answer Grantaire’s question. “No, I had a problem set and an essay due today I haven’t had time to start finishing until now.”

“You were singing karaoke for four hours last night,” Grantaire can’t help but say.

Marius blushes. “Cosette told me I’ve been – and I quote – ‘running myself into the ground’ and that I needed a break. Though I’d completely forgotten about the essay until 4 in the morning, when you finally passed out.” The ‘ _ after making a complete and utter fool of yourself’  _ goes unsaid.  _ Bless you, Marius,  _ he thinks.

Grantaire moves aside for a bleary-eyed Cosette – “Speak of the devil,” he mutters – who ignores him to  sleepily fumble for coffee. Marius hands her his mug. “Trust you Ivy League kids to be able to write an essay in like. 3 hours. Holy shit. How do you do that?” he asks Marius.

Marius rolls his eyes. This is a tired argument, but it’s 7:30 in the morning and Grantaire doesn’t have the energy to be innovative.

“Comes with the rich white dude privilege they hand out at orientation,” Cosette says sarcastically, bending down to kiss Marius’ temple. “Morning, love.” Grantaire laughs. Marius hums happily, and smiles up at her as if she were single-handedly the cause of the Earth turning and the sun coming up. It’d be gross if Cosette wasn’t looking at him in the same way.

Grantaire groans. “Guys, it’s too early for this.” He ignores the look Cosette gives him, her patented ‘ _ Shut up, Grantaire _ ’ look as she leaves the kitchen with a granola bar and another quick kiss. (Truly, she and Eponine have mastered the art of Taking None of Grantaire’s Shit. It’s a little unsettling. He needs new friends.)

Marius takes another sip of his coffee and gives it a grimace as if it’s personally betrayed him before saying, “Besides, I remember a philosophy essay that you whipped 10 pages out of in the 5 hours before it was due.”

Grantaire shrugs. Philosophy had been an easy A, and that’s different, and he tells Marius so as he puts the filter in the coffee maker and turns it on. “I go to  _ SUNY _ , Marius. A little different than Columbia University. A philosophy class at my school is nothing on -” He waves a hand at Marius' laptop. "whatever it is you're working on." 

Marius doesn’t even bother gracing that with a response, just fixes him with the patented Marius  _ ‘Grantaire you’re so full of shit’  _ look that says  _ ‘You know that’s not at all true _ .’ Fair enough.

Grantaire watches as Marius takes another sip of his coffee  as if he’s being forced to do so at gunpoint. “Marius, why are you drinking black coffee when you know you  _ hate  _ black coffee? It’s not like the levels of caffeine change if you add creamer.”

It’s one of the many things they’d disagreed about when they’d first met – Grantaire only drinks black coffee, and Marius has to dump gallons of creamer in his to be able to drink it. Eponine and Cosette have dubbed the war, “The One Where Grantaire Gets an Espresso Machine Lobbed at his Head from the Sixteenth Story Window,” Tagline: “He Probably Deserved It.”

(He had. He had deserved it.)

He’d dodged the flying missile from where he’d been standing on the ground – Marius’s aim was Not Great to say the least, and sixteen stories was a long fall – but it’d scared Grantaire (and Marius) half to death, enough to make them stop being dicks to each other long enough for them to realize they actually got along.

Marius shakes his head. “It’s got creamer. It just also has 3 espresso shots.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Grantaire says. “Unbelievable,” he adds, with feeling. He grabs his beanie from the kitchen table where he’d dropped it last night and pulls it over his ears. Beanies are great. Beanies make him look edgy and cool when he hasn’t washed his hair in a week. He pours his coffee into his thermos and grabs his jacket too.

Marius just grins sweetly. “Have fun at school, dear.”

Grantaire has a half formed ode to beanies in his head by the time he gets to his first class, which is probably why he doesn’t immediately notice that two of the kids who were sitting at Apollo’s table – Enjolras, he reminds himself; he’d spent an inordinate amount of time mouthing the syllables to himself last night, over and over again – are also in his first class.

It’s a psych class, a gen ed that almost everyone at the university has to take in order to graduate, so it shouldn’t be surprising, but it still makes Grantaire’s stomach flip. His hands automatically go to start picking at his nails. Eponine had painted them a glittery purple last night, he notices fuzzily through his haze of panic, probably in an attempt to stop him from doing exactly what he was doing.

It gets worse when the two look back to see him sitting in the middle of the lecture hall and immediately pack their stuff up to move and sit next to him.

_ Fuck _ .

He pretends he doesn’t see them. He can’t believe they even remember who he is.

“Hey,” one of them says, as they set their stuff down on either side of Grantaire. He feels boxed in, like he needs to escape.  _ Breathe, dude _ , he tells himself.  _ It’s just psych class _ .

“You’re the guy from the café,” the bald one with a tribal tattoo on his shaved head says, on Grantaire’s right. He settles into his seat and holds out his hand. “I’m Bossuet.”

He shakes his hand. “Grantaire,” he mutters.

“I’m Joly,” the kid on his right says, somehow managing to sound not only awake but energetic and excited at 8 in the morning.

“Are you here to beat me up for disagreeing with your friend?” It’s the first thing that pops into his mind, and it’s too early for Grantaire to have a working mind to mouth filter.

Joly laughs himself silly at this. It’s kind of cute. Bossuet seems to think so as well, if the way that his eyes have gone dreamy and his eyelashes started fluttering is anything to go by. There’s not the same level of literal hearts in the air as there are when Marius and Cosette are so much as in the same room together, but it’s still very, very obvious. And mutual, apparently – Joly winks roguishly back at Bossuet (as roguishly as a five foot tall bundle of energy can get, anyway).

At this point, the professor has started the lecture, so Grantaire thanks every bit of luck that has deigned to shine on him and focuses all of his attention on her and ignores Joly and Bossuet, making it a point to take very attentive notes that are very much not punctuated with doodles in the margins of course not Grantaire is a  _ model student  _ for heaven’s sake. He would never do such a thing.

Joly ends up grabbing Grantaire’s notes with a half-finished Celtic cross on it – he’d been inspired by Bossuet’s tattoo, okay – and finishing it, adding lines and swirls and flourishes. When he catches Grantaire staring at him in surprise, Joly giggles and whispers, “I’m Irish. My mom taught me all about them when I was little.”

This starts a chain reaction where now Bossuet was drawing patterns on the margins of Grantaire’s notes – “Navajo symbols – learned about ‘em from my parents, since they didn’t teach shit at the reservation school,” he explains, pointing at his head. “That’s what these are too. Keeps me close to my roots.” – Grantaire was drawing the patterns he could remember from the sugar skulls his grandmother always put out on Day of the Dead, and Joly kept drawing Celtic symbols. The people in the row in front of them kept turning to give them dirty looks as they kept whispering and giggling to each other, but squeezed in between Joly and Bossuet and surrounded by their art, Grantaire almost doesn’t care.

By the end of class his paper was filled with sugar skulls patterned with both Navajo symbols and Celtic symbols, both intertwining and merging on them, and very little about General Psychology for Non-Majors.

Grantaire is, somehow, okay with that.

He doesn’t even remember to be nervous until they’re walking out of the lecture hall and into the dining area and Joly and Bossuet ask if he wants to eat with them. “You can meet the rest of the group!” Joly says, excitedly.

“And meet Musichetta!” Bossuet says, face beaming.

“She’s our girlfriend,” Joly explains.

Grantaire blinks. Right. “Er. Sorry. I – uh. Have lunch plans with a friend already.” He pulls out his phone to text Eponine to come up with lunch plans for him as soon as possible. Anything. He’d even settle for fucking  _ Chipotle _ , which Eponine loves but he, as someone who has grown up on  _ real  _ Mexican food, is obviously too good for. 

(He very conveniently lets himself forgets that Eponine, as an Honduran immigrant, has also grown up on “real” Latin American food, and that the two of them can go through Taco Bell’s entire menu in one drunken half hour sitting with no problem whatsoever.)

He thinks her class gets out at the same time as his, anyway.

“Aw, come on,” Joly whines, tugging on Grantaire’s arm like a child. It’s kind of cute - Grantaire finds himself smiling helplessly. “It’s the one day of the week where all our schedules line up.”

“4 of us go to Columbia,” Bossuet explains. “And one of us goes to CUNY, so Wednesdays are the one day where everyone gets to eat lunch together.”

“We do dinner all the time, though!” Joly reassures him.

“And breakfast sometimes,” Bossuet reminds Joly.

“We all go out for ice cream almost every week too.”

“And movies.”

“And movie nights!”

Another voice laughed near them. “He gets it, we’re literally always together.”

“’Chetta!” Joly and Bossuet exclaim in unison, turning toward the newcomer, and Grantaire gets the sinking feeling he’s going to end up being roped into something he doesn’t want to do again.

Musichetta is beautiful – she’s a black woman, sporting natural hair in a loud afro that’s dyed a soft pastel blue and a silver septum ring. Joly and Bossuet kiss her on either cheek and she absolutely lights up, eyes softening in the same dreamy way Bossuet’s had when he looked at Joly in lecture.

Grantaire would never admit it even under duress, but his heart gives a small, painful pang when he sees that. It’s domestic and loving and adorable.

“You’re Grantaire, I take it? These two have been texting me non-stop since they met you.” She puts her hand out to shake. “I’m Musichetta.”

“Uh,” is the extent of Grantaire’s vocabulary at this point. He shakes her hand, on autopilot.

She doesn’t seem bothered by it. “You’re coming to lunch with us, right? I loved your comment the other day - about white cops? I looked it up - it’s something I hadn’t even thought about before, and now I want to get your opinion on  _ so  _ many things.”

Grantaire absolutely  _ does not  _ want that, so he pulls out his phone again, only to see a text from Eponine that says,  _ sorry, have a meeting with my advisor.  _ He improvises, “I have a meeting with my advisor really soon actually, so I don’t think I can.” That seems too curt to leave them with, though, so he adds, “Sorry.”

“Aw, come on,” Joly says again, as if he can see right through Grantaire’s lies and anxiety. Which is a more than terrifying thought.

“Enjolras wants to  _ apologize  _ to you,” Bossuet says. “You can’t take that away from us.”

Grantaire freezes as he’s texting Cosette (and, by default, also texting Marius because they’re probably together or communicating in some way). “He wants to  _ what _ ?”

“I literally don’t think I’ve ever seen him so frazzled. He wants to say  _ sorry _ .” Musichetta’s tone is wondering, and she’s looking at Grantaire with thinly veiled curiosity. “You have to let us see this for ourselves. Please come.”

His heart does that pitiful pang again, and he can almost feel the way his hair had stood on end during that brief moment they’d locked eyes last time. And he wants to  _ apologize  _ to Grantaire. Grantaire feels like laughing.

“Sure,” he finds himself saying, and regrets the decision as soon as he makes it. “Sure, why not?” 

And then, because he has to keep up pretenses, “I can reschedule the meeting with my advisor.” Joly just nods understandingly and pats his arm, which does nothing to dissuade him that they  _ know _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, Jehan's wearing the "in space no one can hear you insist there are only two genders" shirt and you can [buy it here](http://www.zazzle.com/in_space_no_one_can_hear_you_insist_on_two_genders_tshirt-235406512932369404).
> 
> Grantaire's point about police brutality is true. Check out the Center for American Progress's work on the subject. 
> 
> Also, [come say hi](http://toomuchsky.tumblr.com/) to me on tumblr!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras pulls him aside right before they all leave. “Look, I just wanted to say – I looked up what you were talking about the last time. About trust building between communities and police forces.” He takes a deep breath, and rushes out all in one breath, “And you were right.”
> 
> He points a finger at him, stabbing the air, stopping a couple inches away from Grantaire’s chest, and Grantaire hates himself for wanting to step forward, to close that gap. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with you – employment discrimination is still a huge barrier to racial equality and that means within the police force as well – “
> 
> Grantaire laughs, interrupting Enjolras’ speech. He grins. “Holy shit, is it always this hard for you to admit you were wrong?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, but look! You get two chapters! 
> 
> Anyway, as usual shoutout to [Camille](http://sternbilder.tumblr.com/) and [Steph](http://easycomfort.tumblr.com/) for dealing with me and the many, many revisions as I made my way through this monster of a chapter. Shoutout credits go to [Zora](http://xoraq.tumblr.com/) as well for beta-ing this during one of the worst week of our semesters.
> 
> Also, did I mention that this is going to be a slow build fic (like really really slow build) because wow is it going to be a slow build fic.
> 
> I'm really glad people seem to like this fic, because I really like writing it. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

**ii.**

“So,” Musichetta breaks the silence as they’re walking toward the Café Musain again. Apparently, that’s where most of their meetings are. Because that’s what they call this, a “meeting,” instead of just “hanging out.” Grantaire doesn’t understand these people. “What’s your major?”

Grantaire grins and holds up his hands, which at this point in his life are perpetually paint stained. “Fine arts.” It always makes him feel better to say that he’s a  _ fine  _ arts major instead of just an  _ art  _ major, for some reason. It sounds more real somehow.

(It probably has something to do with how his parents are unceasingly irritated at him for choosing to pursue art in college. He’d half done it to piss them off and half because he had no idea what he wanted to do with his life – still doesn’t – and art seemed as good a thing as any. And saying Fine Arts, making it seem like a real career option instead of just “wasting away his days _”_ and “destroying any chance he has of a future,” just annoys them even more, which of course means Grantaire does it as many times as humanly possible, because Grantaire is a little shit.)

Her face lights up. “That’s awesome! We were just talking about how we needed someone to do some design work for us!” Grantaire feels his grin melt off his face as he keeps walking tightly.

“We all recently decided to create this organization called the ABC,” she explains, and then her voice morphs and she sounds like she’s reciting a sales pitch. “We’re basically trying to change the way that politics works by combining the ideals and strengths of small scale, relatively high impact community activism and large scale, relatively low impact policy change,” she explains excitedly. 

Grantaire has no idea what that even means. The words “community activism” have him cringing automatically, and his head is spinning.

She continues, “It’s a model that doesn’t really exist yet, and we’re still looking for someone to design the logo and other things. If you're interested."

Musichetta looks at Joly and Bossuet for support. Joly is nodding so hard he’s bouncing again. “Yeah! Pamphlets and brochures and stuff.”

Bossuet adds on, “And some digital work if you wanted?” He says it like a question, noticing Grantaire’s clenched fists.

Musichetta takes one look at Grantaire’s panicked face and quickly assures him, “Only if you want, obviously. You don’t have to.”

Grantaire reminds himself to breathe. He exhales softly. Right. “Right.” He makes himself laugh. “Sorry, I can’t draw digitally to be honest – one time I tried to draw a cat on a Bamboo tablet and my friend asked me why I was drawing Patrick Dempsey humping a palm tree.”

Joly and Bossuet snorted. Musichetta laughed brightly, her voice tinkling.

(Eponine and Marius had laughed for days when he’d looked up at them with a betrayed look and said in a quiet voice, “It’s supposed to be a  _ cat. _ ” Cosette had just patted his shoulder and said, “Well, it sort of looks like one if you flip it upside down and squint really hard?” which really just made everything worse in the end. He hadn’t touched a digital art program since then.)

Then, to change the subject, he asks, “What are your majors?” while dodging a couple of screaming kids and people with fanny packs and cameras as they run down the sidewalk. They all share an eye roll at that –  _ tourists _ – in the way that only true New Yorkers can; it’s a class of people he now feels as if he belongs to, even though he’s only in the city for school. 

(Grantaire is from Middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania. Grantaire is not a New Yorker.)

Joly beams, “Biology with a med school track.”

And before Grantaire can comment on that, on how  _ right  _ it seems for him, even though he’s only known him for literally one hour, Bossuet says, “Civil Engineering! With an environmental focus.”

“So you want to build solar panels and stuff?” Grantaire asks.

“Solar panels are kind of more material science engineering than civil, aren’t they?” he asks, just to be nice. Grantaire shrugs, kind of feeling like an idiot now. “I’m more interested in wind turbines. And how to innovate new ways of building them so that they’re integrated into our landscape and policy makers can no longer use the lazy ‘they’re ugly’ excuse.”

“There’s a lot more excuses they can use after that, though,” Grantaire mutters, because he can’t help but be a dick. Not to mention he knows from experience how wishy-washy politicians can be. He starts picking at his nails, taking off Eponine’s nail polish coat by coat, leaving purple sparkles in his wake. He doesn’t want to think about that.

Bossuet just shrugs it off with a laugh.

“And I’m computer science,” Musichetta finishes.

He smiles softly. “Gonna save the world through code, then?” he asks, because that seems like the sort of thing Musichetta would do. He can’t keep the hint of sarcasm out of his voice, but Musichetta either doesn’t notice or ignores it. 

“Nah, Enjolras and Combeferre – he’s a CS major too – are self-proclaimed tech evangelists but I’m - not. Like at all.” She laughs incredulously to accentuate her point. “I think code is a tool that we can use to solve problems, obviously, but - like, man, we need  _ more _ than that to make a real difference and people don't seem to  _ get  _ that.”

Grantaire has no idea what a tech evangelist is supposed to mean exactly, and is a little afraid to ask.

“There’s too much of a focus on  _ solutionism _ ,” Joly says, saying the words as if it has air quotes around it, though he spares them the motion, “in Silicon Valley already - all the tech startups doing their thing.” He’s clearly used to Musichetta’s thoughts on the subject at this point.

Joly’s hands are gesticulating so wildly as he continues to articulate his point that he almost smacks Bossuet in the face. He looks back with an apologetic glance but if the fondness Bossuet is looking at him with is anything to go by, he doesn’t care. Joly blows him a kiss, grinning, before continuing, “Everyone’s too focused on like -  _ fixing  _ shit, which is fine and whatever, but they’re all so busy coming up with solutions to things that no one’s out there actually  _ testing  _ things. As in like, making sure the things they came up with to fix shit are actually doing what they’re supposed to be doing.”

“And that’s what Musichetta is gonna fix,” Bossuet says, which makes Musichetta smile slowly and sweetly and get on her tip-toes to give him a peck on the lips.

“Damn right I am.”

When they walk into the Musain, Grantaire notices Enjolras immediately. It’s hard not to, when Enjolras is sitting in the middle of the coffee shop looking for all the world as if he’s presiding over his kingdom – his army, his subjects, his courtiers, they were everything at once. God, he’s  _ beautiful _ . 

Grantaire takes a moment to picture them all as bold revolutionaries, fighting for a righteous cause – like prison abolition or electoral college reformation, or something equally futile – charging into battle, fiery and impassioned. 

His hands itch for paint, charcoal, anything to get the image of Enjolras standing at the forefront of a revolution out of his head and onto paper. Reds and golds, and blacks for the backgrounds. Pastels, for the rest of his friends.

Apollo’s Army of Pastel Haired Do-Gooders, waging the War Against Oppression and Tyranny.

(Eponine and Cosette’s inclination to name things in Capital Letters is rubbing off on him.)

Enjolras is sitting next to the two guys he was between the last time Grantaire saw him here, all of them deep in conversation. One is a black guy with thick rimmed hipster glasses and dreads tied up in a knot on his head, which, Grantaire won’t lie, turned him a little weak in the knees - he has a  _ thing  _ for manbuns; the other is a dude with wild strawberry blonde curls and olive skin, his legs propped up in both of the other guys’ laps and leaning back dangerously in his chair.

(He takes another second, only a second, to imagine himself as part of that group - Apollo’s Army of Pastel Haired Do-Gooders, plus Grantaire. He has to admit it doesn’t have the same ring to it.)

Grantaire suddenly doesn’t want to be here anymore.

As if sensing his reluctance, Joly grabs his hand as the three of them pull him toward the table. Grantaire’s legs are weak.

“Look who we found,” Bossuet announces loudly.

Their conversation interrupted, all three sets of eyes pan up to settle on Grantaire and he flushes red and can’t meet their eyes. Joly still hasn’t let go of his hand, which is probably for the best because Grantaire would be attacking his cuticles again otherwise. He tries to get at them with his free hand, anyway.

Joly drags him down into a chair and sits down next to him, adding, “He was in our first class,” and Grantaire’s stuck in between Joly and Bossuet again, with Musichetta on Bossuet’s other side.

“Uh. Hi.”

A dark hand cuts into his vision. “Combeferre. Nice to meet you.”

Grantaire reaches out to shake it. “Grantaire.” He’s pretty proud he hasn’t squeaked, actually. He chances a glance up. They’re all looking at him with badly concealed curiosity, and at this point Grantaire is kind of tired of being looked at like a puzzle piece that won’t fit into their  worldview . But whatever.

“Enjolras.” His brown eyes are still blazing, but more muted now, subdued and calculating. Grantaire has to swallow around a large lump in his throat as he shakes Enjolras’s hand. His hands are so  _ soft _ . Grantaire’s are bitten and calloused and  _ gross _ .

The olive-skinned guy swings his feet off his friends’ laps and leans across the table to give Grantaire an awkward hug over it. “Grantaire! So nice to officially meet you.” He smiles widely. “Glad you found your way back to us.”

“And that’s Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says, and smirks fondly at him, if one can even smirk fondly. Grantaire adds that to the list of skills he needs to learn, pencils it in right above cooking and right below being able to chug a boilermaker faster than Eponine. 

Courfeyrac just grins back at Combeferre, winking dramatically.

“Look, I – “ Enjolras starts. He’s interrupted by the clamor of the rest of the group walking into the café and grabbing seats around the table.

(He desperately wants to hear what Enjolras would have said before he was interrupted at the same time that he desperately  _ doesn’t  _ want to hear what Enjolras would have said. It’s all very confusing.)

Three other people he doesn’t know yet sit down, arguing about healthcare reform. It’s the East Asian dude with the pink hair who had asked Grantaire about his name last time, a South Asian guy with full tattoo sleeves and a prosthetic leg, and a white dude with long brown hair in a top knot and sleeves made of hemp bracelets instead of tattoos.  _ So many top knots  _ \- Grantaire doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through this.

Grantaire immediately tunes out as they continue arguing about healthcare policy, because  _ holy pretentious academic drivel _ ,  _ Batman _ . He’s had enough of that for the day. And now everyone at the table is involved in the debate about whether or not Obamacare was enough to offset the issues with rising healthcare costs and he is  _ so, so  _ bored. And is also more than a little bit terrified of speaking up in a group like this. He’s afraid no one will notice if he does. 

His hands itch to draw something – to keep  _ busy  _ – but he doesn’t have a marker on him so he settles for staring intently at his hands as he works to pull off every bit of offending skin from his cuticles and ignoring the conversation that’s happening at ever increasing volumes around him. He feels a little awkward, sitting here without saying anything - it’s paralyzing, being  _ within  _ this group that seems to know each other so well and be so comfortable around each other, but not a  _ part  _ of it. He can barely get himself to chuckle at the right times, let alone make the quippy remarks and  _ be himself  _ the way he would with his friends. All three of them. 

But worse is what they’re talking about - Grantaire doesn’t think he could deal with this topic even during his best days, which were self prescribed  _ long over _ . (He’s accepted that even as a junior in college, he’s already peaked.) Healthcare reform was a wide, varied, and contentious issue, and did not have an easy answer like Enjolras’ friends seemed to think it did - it was also where he had the least amount of experience. 

(He’d had trouble dealing with this even back when he was doing this shit full time. Ended up falling asleep at a State Department hearing about Ukraine, once, because he was hungover and tired and bored. He’s not proud of it.)

(Okay, he’s a little proud of it – it was a loud meeting.)

He must have rolled his eyes too times too many – he couldn’t help snorting at “and it’s shitty because the higher costs is literally terrible for everyone, even the people who think they’re benefitting from it” and he’s not even sure who says it – because Enjolras finally snaps at him, “Do you have a  _ problem? _ ”

The part of Grantaire that hates himself is flattered he even noticed. Somewhere deep down, Grantaire knows he’s been waiting for this, in a way – waiting for all that righteous anger to be focused on him and  _ only  _ him. It’s exhilarating. He smiles sweetly at him, just to be a dick, and is rewarded when Enjolras’ frown deepens.

“Also, hi,” the pink haired one says, interrupting the rant Grantaire has building in his head, and Grantaire’s a little bit annoyed about it, but he’d take any distraction from the fire in Enjolras’ eyes, no matter how much he’d longed for it. “I don’t think we’ve officially met yet.” He sticks out a hand. “Feuilly. It's nice to see you again.”

“Grantaire,” he says, as he shakes his hand. His hand is probably going to end up cramping from the number of hands he’s shaken today.

“Bahorel,” the South Asian one says, flicking his hand in a wave. “Love the shirt, by the way,” Bahorel says, grinning. “Fucking rad.”

Grantaire can’t help grinning back, looking down at the shirt he’s wearing – it’s a paint stained band T-shirt for a band called In This Moment. “Thanks.” He’s almost 87% sure it’s Cosette’s, but he’s also 34% sure he bought it for her, so it sort of counts.

“And I’m Jehan,” the one with the topknot says. “I use they/them pronouns, by the way.”

Grantaire shakes their hand. “Right. Gotcha.” He smiles. “Please feel free to spray me with cold water if I mess up.”

Jehan grins. “Absolutely no worries on that front, love.”

Grantaire laughs. He  _ likes _ this group – the ABC, Enjolras’s army, because it’s patently obvious that’s what it is, no matter that it had been Musichetta who had given him the pitch first – against his better judgment.

It’s going to be hard to watch them fail.

Enjolras says, “Anyway, what exactly is your  _ fucking  _ problem?” and his body automatically turns back toward Enjolras like it’s something it can’t help doing - like a wilting flower turning toward the light. He’s still glaring at him, and Grantaire wishes it made him feel anything other than exhilarated.

“Rising healthcare costs isn’t all necessarily bad, you know,” Grantaire says, scrambling to remember what was said and what he’d been thinking about when he’d snorted. “All of the data surrounding reform suggests that the biggest driving force behind healthcare getting more expensive is actually because the  _ quality _ of healthcare is rising. CAT scans and DNA tests are fucking  _ expensive,  _ dude, but they’re  _ saving lives _ . Like, do you  _ want  _ to go back to drilling holes in people’s skulls and using leeches? Because I sure don’t.”

Enjolras counters him instantly, “That might  _ contribute _ but it doesn’t tell the whole story – overtesting is a  _ huge part _ of that, and doctors  _ use _ those  _ fucking expensive _ measures to drive up patient costs.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that the biggest reason costs are rising is  _ because _ healthcare quality is rising, and you’re  _ overlooking  _ that just to make your argument.”

It’s getting easier to find himself back here, arguing about things that don’t matter with people who care too much, and he hates it. He hates every single part of it. It was easier when he could just tell himself he didn’t care, that he didn’t understand anyway, that it didn’t concern him. He starts picking at the one nail that’s managed to survive this long.

Combeferre adds on, “We’re not  _ overlooking  _ it if we’re coming up with other reasons for why it could be happening. Plus, that doesn’t explain why the costs skyrocketed right when Medicaid and Medicare went into effect – rent seeking by doctors is a huge factor in the fucked up shitty system we have now.”

“Which we’re definitely going to need to tackle at some point,” Jehan says. “We should add that to the mission statement.”

“Right. For your ABC club or whatever.” Grantaire says it in a mocking voice without even meaning to.

There’s a silence that lasts a couple of seconds, where he had expected instant rebuttal, and Grantaire wants to snatch his words back. He’s not about to  _ apologize _ , but he hadn’t meant to sound so callous, at least.

Combeferre pushes his glasses up before saying, “It’s not just a  _ club _ . It’s not a pipe dream. We’re working on getting recognized as a nonprofit, we have a business plan and funders - we’ve already been invited to some events as an organization.” He pauses for a second. “It’s a  _ reality _ .”

Courfeyrac takes a sip of his coffee, and continues where Combeferre left off, “We actually wanted to talk to you about that. We think your input would be valuable - necessary, maybe. You see things differently than the rest of us do, and you seem to know what you’re talking about.” He runs a hand through his curls, licks his lips, and looks over at Combeferre before continuing, “We’d like you to be a part of it. If you want.”

Grantaire sneaks a glance at Enjolras – he’s staring determinedly at the table, lips pressed together. “ _ We _ ?” he scoffs.

“We,” Combeferre says, firmly. The set of his lips almost begs Grantaire to fight him on it. Grantaire kind of wants to.

Grantaire looks down, noticing that the nail he’s picking at is bleeding again. He presses it to the sleeve of his sweatshirt to stop the bleeding, and hopes no one notices the blossoming bloodstain. “Maybe,” he says, and can’t stop his voice from shaking a little. He’s not –  _ ready  _ to get back into this. He doesn’t want to. Though he’s pretty positive that if  _ Enjolras _ had asked him, had even given any inkling of wanting him in the group, he would have said yes in a heartbeat, because, he is, in fact, that pathetic.

Combeferre nods. “Okay, then. Let us know,” and they go back to their conversations and Grantaire goes back to wanting to get out of there as soon as possible.

Enjolras pulls him aside right before they all leave. “Look, I just wanted to say – I looked up what you were talking about the last time. About trust building between communities and police forces.” He takes a deep breath, and rushes out all in one breath, “And you were right.”

He points a finger at him, stabbing the air, stopping a couple inches away from Grantaire’s chest, and Grantaire hates himself for wanting to step forward, to close that gap. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with you – employment discrimination is still a huge barrier to racial equality and that means within the police force as well – “

Grantaire laughs, interrupting Enjolras’ speech. He grins. “Holy shit, is it always this hard for you to admit you were wrong?”

“I wasn’t  _ wrong _ ,” Enjolras grumbles, but his eyes don’t flash angrily, so Grantaire thinks he’s gotten somewhere. “I just didn’t see the whole picture before – that doesn’t mean I was  _ wrong _ .”

“Okay, dude, whatever you say.” Grantaire is suddenly very tired. He smirks. “If all of your apologies are this bad, I can’t wait to see what your gloating is like.”

Enjolras just glares at him again for good measure before heading out of the café and back to his friends.

And Grantaire is so, so fucked.

 

Grantaire gets home with the full intention of curling up on the couch and whining to his friends via text until they come home and can console him properly by buying him ice cream and alcohol and patting his head while they watch shitty Tarantino movies and play drunk Mario Kart.

That plan comes to an abrupt halt when Eponine comes through the door as Grantaire is making himself coffee in the kitchen, because coffee is a Necessary Part of the moping and whining ritual (okay, so that’s only the case when he spikes it with whiskey, which is all the time), looking like her world was falling apart.

Eponine comes into the kitchen and immediately goes for a hug, and Grantaire is suddenly very, very scared, because Eponine doesn’t ask for physical affection unless something is very, very wrong.

“Ep? Ep, what’s up?” he squeezes her as tight as he can and runs his hands along her back, trying his best to be soothing when he has no idea what happened.

It takes her a while to be able to get words out. In the end, she whispers, so quiet he has to lean his head into her shoulder to hear the words, “Gav – Gav ran away from home. Won’t tell me what he’s doing or where he’s going or  _ anything  _ and our parents are pretending it didn’t happen and – “ she clamps her mouth shut, closing off, which is how he knows that’s all she’ll say about it for the night.

_ Shit,  _ he thinks, because Gavroche is her little brother and she loves her siblings more than she loves anyone else in the whole entire world, more than herself, even. Grantaire had met him once or twice and he can’t imagine the kid out on his own – he’s only _ twelve  _ for fuck’s sake. He’s resourceful as hell and smarter than most people Grantaire knows, but he’s  _ twelve. _

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, Ep, that’s – “

She just hugs him tighter. “I know,” she says softly, and his heart breaks.

“Come on,” he says, dropping out of the hug, and tugging her to the couch. He knew there wasn’t anything she could do about it right now - because if there was, she would be out there, doing it. They’d take care of it later, together, but right now he needs to take care of her. He wraps her up in a blanket and gives her the Irish coffee he’d made for himself. She looks at him gratefully and takes a sip.

When Marius and Cosette come home from their date night, they find Grantaire and Eponine cuddled on the couch watching a Disney movie as Eponine clutches Grantaire’s hand so hard he’s pretty sure he won’t be able to feel it for half a week, a half empty bottle of wine between them.

Cosette immediately goes over to Eponine’s other side, drops a kiss onto her shoulder, and cuddles up under the blanket, curled around Eponine’s arm. Marius joins them, and they stay huddled around each other, giving Eponine the support and love she needs for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one of the biggest issues that I've seen in policy is the disconnect between large institutions like think tanks who try to create high level policy change ( the deal breakers) and smaller grassroots movements (the torch bearers) trying to make life better for some people in their community. They don't talk to each other nearly as much as they should, and that's basically the gap that the ABC is trying to fill.
> 
> Anyway, R's point about healthcare is also true - learned that in class the other day and it kind of blew my mind. Obviously doesn't tell the whole story but it's an interesting point to take into consideration. 
> 
> Also FUN FACT, my friend once fell asleep at a State Department hearing about Ukraine while he was interning there because he was hungover and tired. What a loser.
> 
> [Come say hi](http://toomuchsky.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So what are you guys doing here?” Grantaire asks. “Doesn’t seem like your kind of scene.”
> 
> “We have essays due tomorrow,” Courfeyrac says brightly, as if that explains everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See last chapter's shoutouts, because all of those apply here as well.

**iii.**

Grantaire has a gig later that week. It’s a pretty small one; he’s an opening act for one of the more popular bands in the city, called the Hamburgers. It’s his first in a while, so he’s a little nervous.

This, of course, means that his friends are there, in the front row, because they think that showing up to his gigs in some sort of moral support will make things better. To be fair, Grantaire has never had the heart to tell them that it actually makes him  _ more  _ nervous when he knows people in the audience. Too much pressure.

He glares at the three of them for good measure as he sets up his guitar. Eponine blows a sarcastic kiss at him and Cosette and Marius each make half a heart with their hands and put them together for Grantaire, beaming ironically. He rolls his eyes. He needs better friends, he tells himself for the third time that day.

Friends that  _ don’t hold up giant posters with his baby pictures on them at his shows what the hell Eponine where did you even get those from. _

He pretends he doesn’t see them as he strums the first couple of notes. There’s some cheering from the back of the room, probably some frat guys doing shots or something. He launches into his first song.

Marius buys them all shots after the Hamburgers perform to celebrate. “That was amazing, R!” Cosette yells over the din of the pop music now blasting through the club.

“Besides the fact that your lyrics are the literal embodiment of suburban white boy angst, that went really well,” Eponine agrees, downing her shot and waving Marius over to pay for another one. He rolls his eyes as he pulls his card out again.

“Thanks, Ep, really. I appreciate that,” Grantaire says dryly, but he’s smiling. If Eponine was mocking him, she wasn’t trying to make him feel better about the show, which meant that it hadn’t gone  _ horribly _ at least. “Also, tell me you burned that poster  _ how dare you  _ where did you even get those pictures.”

She just grins sweetly at him, which tells him nothing and everything at the same time. She doesn’t have it with her anymore either, which also tells him nothing and everything at the same time.

“I hate you.”

She just snorts and hands him a drink.

“I redact that statement – I may be in love with you.”

She rolls her eyes. Eponine does a lot of communicating without words.  

Cosette plants a large, wet kiss on his cheek and slurs, “You did good, R, you did good,” patting him on the chest clumsily.

He laughs. “God, you are such a lightweight.”

“That is. Not true,” she says, taking another sip of her cranberry vodka, swaying a little bit.

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s get you home.” He waves Marius over and together with Eponine they wrestle the drink out of Cosette’s hand – Grantaire downs the rest of it; he’s not one to pass up free alcohol, even if it  _ is _ cranberry vodka – and they’re about to leave the bar when a shout from across the room stops them.

“Marius!”

Marius’ face falls in confusion for a second, and then he slowly grins widely as he turns toward the voice and lets himself be manhandled into a rough hug from – Courfeyrac?

What was Courfeyrac doing here?

“I haven’t seen you in forever!” he’s saying, almost shaking Marius with the fervor he’s putting into the hug. “Where have you  _ been _ ? And Cosette!” He lets go of Marius and hugs Cosette with as much enthusiasm as he’d been hugging Marius, who squeals – she is  _ so  _ drunk – and throws herself into the hug. He, thankfully, hadn’t noticed Grantaire yet. “My darling my sweet, how have you been?”

And – shit – there’s Combeferre and Enjolras coming up behind Courfeyrac. What has he done to deserve this?

(Okay, he can think of a lot of things he’s done to deserve this. He can think of a lot of things he’s done  _ today  _ to deserve this. That’s not the point.)

He needs another drink.

He casts around wildly for Eponine. She’s right beside him, of course, because that’s where they always are for each other. She squeezes his upper arm in support, noticing how he’s automatically started picking at his nails. He steals her drink and downs it in one go.

“Think of it as contributing to the Making Sure Grantaire Doesn’t Kill Something cause,” he tells her when she glares at him. 

(Tagline: “Or Himself.”)

 

Grantaire is still reeling from the fact that one of his best friends knows Enjolras somehow.

“Is that the dude you’ve been pining after for a couple days now?” she asks, nodding at where Enjolras is smiling warmly at Courfeyrac and talking with Marius and Combeferre - and  _ how  _ could she tell that it was  _ him  _ out of the three of them, Combeferre had a  _ manbun  _ for God’s sake. Is Grantaire really  _ that  _ predictable?

He makes a small noise in his throat to protest the allegation that he’s been  _ pining _ – he was not  _ pining  _ Grantaire does not  _ pine  _ – but then Courfeyrac finally notices him.

“ _ Grantaire _ !” Courfeyrac smothers him in a hug, and Grantaire can’t help but sigh a little at the tight embrace, his nerves dissipating slowly. He has a feeling Courfeyrac puts people at ease just by being around them, and Grantaire is no exception. “What are you doing here? Do you two know each other?” he asks, pointing between Marius and Grantaire.

Grantaire smiles helplessly at Courfeyrac’s easy charm and very carefully doesn’t look behind him to see what Enjolras is doing – to see if he’s even looking at Grantaire, because Grantaire knows he’s not and doesn’t think he could take that particular hit to his ego today. “Yeah, we’re roommates.”

Marius is beaming now, and more than a little drunk, so he adds, stage-whispering as if he’s confiding something immensely secretive to Courfeyrac, “One time we had a fight over laundry that lasted a week.”

“The One Where Grantaire Goes to War with the Dryer,” Cosette and Eponine say in unison, and then high five each other. Cosette’s aim is a little off, but she laughs loudly anyway.

(Tagline: “And Loses.”)

Grantaire groans, but he’s smiling, and he can breathe a little bit easier now. He still needs that other drink, though. He waves over the bartender. “So how do you two know each other, then?” he asks after he orders a beer, and another rum and coke for Eponine to replace the one he’d stolen from her.

“We were roommates freshman year,” Courfeyrac says, throwing an arm around Marius easily.

“Yeah, he pretty much saved me from having a random roommate,” Marius laughs. Right. They both go to Columbia. Did that mean –

“I met the rest of these guys because of him, too.” He gestures behind Courfeyrac, where Grantaire is decidedly still not looking. “So how do  _ you  _ two know each other?” Marius asks.

Grantaire flushes. “It’s a long story –“

And so of course Courfeyrac takes them through the whole thing, in loud voices and flowery language, because this is Grantaire’s life.

He really,  _ really  _ needs that drink.

 

“So we’re sitting there, right, and this is right after the Pride Parade last week, so we’re all fucking exhausted and like, super, super fucking queer and hyped up on social justice and like FREEDOM and shit, right?” Grantaire rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, so Courfeyrac just laughs and shoves his shoulder before continuing. “Anyway we go to the Musain, because where else do we ever go, and eventually we start talking about - what was it again? Like police brutality or something? And Enj makes this shitty comment about white people or whatever -”

“Trust building between the police force and the community,” Grantaire mutters, itching to take over telling the story.

“Right, that, anyway. Enj says something he probably shouldn’t have as a white dude - he kind of does that a lot, TBH,” Courfeyrac says, pronouncing the letters individually. “And his kid comes out of fucking  _ nowhere  _ and fucking  _ schools  _ him - can you imagine! Schooling  _ Enjolras _ ! You should have seen the look on his face Jesus Christ. Truly one for the legends. Anyway, and then we all fell in love with him and asked him to join our organization. Mainly so that we don’t all end up getting schooled by people like him later on down the road, but also because we fell in love with him.”

The bartender finally comes back with the beer after they finish talking about how weird it is that they all know each other and what a small world it is and how New York City seems like a big city but is really not and etc, etc, etc. He hands the rum and coke to Eponine and she takes it without pausing in her gesticulations while talking to Combeferre - something about gentrification in New York, which he knows Eponine has a lot of opinions on. Apparently, Combeferre does as well.

“God bless you,” Grantaire whispers to the bartender fervently. “You are my favorite person.” She laughs and pats his arm judiciously, as if he’s not the first one to tell her that tonight, and leaves after giving him a complimentary shot of tequila.  _ Bless her _ , he thinks again, taking the shot and waiting for the world to get a little bit fuzzier before turning back around. He kind of wants to escape to the bathroom with his phone, but knows from experience that Marius will come and drag him out if he does that, and he doesn’t really care to go through that humiliation again. So he straightens his shoulders, tells himself to suck it the fuck up, and turns back around.

“So what are you guys doing here?” Grantaire asks. “Doesn’t seem like your kind of scene.”

“We have essays due tomorrow,” Courfeyrac says brightly, as if that explains everything.

“What about you? Isn’t it a little far from your campus?” Combeferre asks, not giving Grantaire a chance to ask.

But before he can say anything, stop his friends from saying anything, or find a nice, comfortable rock to live under for the rest of his life, Cosette’s beaming and smacking his shoulder repeatedly while saying, “R had a show!”

“A show?” Combeferre asks, confused.

“Yeah. He was playing the opening act, right before the Hamburgers came on,” Eponine says, and dammit she’s smirking at him because she  _ knows  _ how much he hates her for this.

“We were here as moral support,” Marius says. He blinks up at Courfeyrac, who has his arm around him again, still very much drunk. “Did you know he named his guitar after a dick joke in Hamlet once?” His face scrunches up in concentration. “What was it again? Something with an – “

“Oh, I remember!” Eponine says, and Grantaire manages to smack his hand over her mouth before she says anything else.

“No you don’t!” he yells.

Eponine just laughs at him, muffled.

Grantaire is really reconsidering his choice in friends at this point. It’s not too late, he thinks. He can still move out. Live in a box. Pawn his art off on tourists for money. It could work.

He sputters out, “That was  _ one time _ . And I was drunk!” Eponine gives him a look at this, like  _ When aren’t you drunk, Grantaire? _ Which, fair. “Besides, you once cuddled with a trash can when  _ you _ got drunk, dude. There’s no way I’m letting you live that one down.”

Enjolras laughs – it’s clipped and short. Marius blushes a cute red, and Cosette and Courfeyrac both tease him about it, ruffling his hair and giggling loudly, but Grantaire can’t focus on that because  _ Enjolras just laughed at something he’d said. _

He stares openly at him. Enjolras is beautiful when he smiles, the air he gives off completely changing and becoming more open, softer. More human.

Enjolras looks over to see him gaping and immediately closes off, frowning while turning a shade of red himself. He clears his throat pointedly when Grantaire still can’t tear his eyes away.

Grantaire shakes himself and takes good, long swig of his beer. God bless alcohol. And bartenders. And bars in general.

“So you play guitar?” Enjolras asks, his tone skeptical and wondering all at once. It’s the first thing Enjolras has said to him all night, and he hates that he’s been keeping track.

“Uh.”

Cosette’s chest puffs up, as if she’s a proud parent, and she pats his arm drunkenly again while gushing, “He’s really good – like  _ really really  _ good.” She stumbles for a second and Grantaire catches her, laughing. She continues though, on a mission, “Like if Elvis  _ Presley  _ and that one dude from – that one band with all the guitars – smushed together and – and made a son with the guitar playing skills of both it’d be  _ Grantaire _ .”

She smiles up at him after this, innocent and pure and sweet and everything that is good and right with the world, and even though Grantaire is definitely very, very mad at her, he can’t help but smile back.

He rolls his eyes, faking bravado, and turns back to Enjolras. “Yes. Yes I am  _ exactly  _ that good, if you were wondering,” he says, smirking. And if he’s clutching his glass a little tighter than he needs to, no one notices.

Enjolras’s lips twitch up in a half smile and Grantaire counts it as a victory.

Somehow at some point between those two sentences, Courfeyrac had led the rest of the group away, announcing a round of shots on him – and  _ dammit _ , how had he missed out on that – and Enjolras and Grantaire are left standing next to each other, alone. And  _ fuck  _ now they have to make small talk until the group comes back.

“So, what’s your major?” Enjolras asks, because that’s everyone’s go-to ice breaker in college.

“Art,” Grantaire says, fingernail tapping on his glass erratically. He downs the rest of the beer because man if there ever was a time he needed liquid courage that was now before asking, “You?”

“Political Science,” Enjolras says, in a way that would make anyone think it was a religion and not a field of study.

Grantaire laughs. “I am absolutely 0% surprised by that. What are you going to do with it after graduation?” he asks, because that is every college  _ junior’s  _ go-to ice breaker. “Destroy the system? Start a revolution? Change the world?” He can’t quite keep the mocking tone out of his voice; those kinds of goals and ideals were all he’d had so long ago.

Enjolras eyes Grantaire warily, but continues, “No, I’m going to save it.”

“And what makes you think the world needs saving?” he asks, clutching the bottle in his hand as a lifeline, despite there being  _ no fucking alcohol in it. _

Enjolras’ mouth turns downward, lips pressing together angrily. He leans closer to hiss, “Listen, if you don’t believe in what we’re trying to do, don’t bother coming back – we don’t – we don’t need –“

And now Grantaire’s panicking even harder, because he  _ has to go back,  _ has to be a part of this, of what Enjolras is doing. Trying to do.

Even if it’s going to fail in the long run.

“It’s not – it’s not  _ that  _ – that’s not what I meant – I just meant –“ Grantaire’s hands are shaking and he  can’t think of a way to explain exactly what he  _ had  _ meant without having Enjolras kick him out of the group - he is too goddamn drunk for this (or not drunk enough) - so he settles for, “ _ How  _ are you planning on saving it?”

And Grantaire is still hazy with panic and alcohol, so he makes himself paste on that cocksure smirk Cosette always frowns at him for and says, “Because I am 100% sure you have some sort of master plan of how to overthrow the government already.” The smirk widens, becomes something more genuine. His grip on the glass is less desperate. “Probably have had one since you were four, don’t lie.”

Enjolras shakes his head, a small, nostalgic smile on his face. “I didn’t start getting interested in politics until high school, actually." He lets out a short laugh, and Grantaire feels his face heating up again. "I actually wanted to be a dolphin trainer until I was in eighth grade.”

If this was an old school cartoon, this is where Grantaire would have done a spittake because  _ –  _ “ _ What _ ?”

A vision of Enjolras standing in all his golden glory by the side of a pool on a warm, sunny day  _ in a goddamn wetsuit  _ comes to mind, unbidden, and Grantaire can’t breathe.

Enjolras shrugs, taking a sip of his – mimosa oh my god he’s drinking a _mimosa_ it is _11 o’clock at night Enjolras_ _who the fuck drinks mimosas at night_ and _how_ had Grantaire not noticed this before?

(Oh, right, it’s because he’d been too preoccupied with how his curls catch the different strobe lights in the club at different angles and how he still manages to look fucking radiant in shitty club lighting. Obviously.)

“It was before I realized how cruelly most of the aquariums and tanks treat their animals.”

Grantaire can’t help roll his eyes. “Are you one of those people that think all zoos are evil?”

The angry set to his mouth comes back, and Grantaire is almost sorry. Almost. And they’d been having such a nice conversation, too.

Courfeyrac saves them from getting into another argument by coming back and shoving a drink at Grantaire’s chest. Courfeyrac is the best. He’s going to write a song about Courfeyrac and how great he is. He’s going to write ten songs about Courfeyrac and how great he is.

And wow, okay, he is a lot more drunk than he probably should be. He downs the shot of whiskey Courfeyrac gave him anyway, because dude. Free alcohol.

Eponine is there next to him, suddenly, and how did that happen? “We should get going – gotta drag these two drunk asses home.” She has an arm around Cosette, too -- did she mean him and Cosette? -- and Marius has his guitar – where had Grantaire left that, anyway?

Grantaire doesn’t remember the walk home much. He remembers babbling about -- _holy shit he’s so pretty, Ep_ \-- _he actually thinks he’s going to change the world doesn’t he -- like he’s going to create some sort of revolution -- I bet he pictures himself on the cover of TIME with some douchey caption on his picture in his free time_ \--   _he was gonna kick me out of the group Ep I don’t wanna be kicked out of the group -- like I do but I don’t, you feel? --_ _but he’s so pretttyyyyy_.

He vaguely remembers Eponine muttering, “So help me Grantaire  _ te amo pero  _ I will leave your fucking ass out on the street if you talk about how shiny his hair is  _ one more fucking time _ .”

The next morning, Grantaire wakes up on the couch for the second time that week.

He checks his phone to see a number he doesn’t recognize has texted him  _ hey, got your number from marius hope u don’t mind!!!!!! We’re having an impromptu meeting today bc we got invited to be on a panel for an event on sexual assault prevention (it’s kind of a huge deal!!!!!!!!! This took forever to coordinate!!!!!!!! I still can’t believe it’s actually happening!!!!!!!) and i just wanted to let you know. 1pm at the musain. See u there hopefully!!!!!! _

He really doesn’t even have to check, because there is only one person he knows who would use that many exclamation points, but he does anyway and the responding text is  _ it’s joly sorry!!! So are you coming??? _

Grantaire doesn’t let himself think about it before he texts back a  _ yeah sure i’ll be there _ .

And did Grantaire mention that he was fucked? Because he is so incredibly fucked.

He gets up to find a clean pair of jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The band being named the Hamburgers is a nod to this fic called [World Ain't Ready](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2306315?view_full_work=true), which is literally probably the best thing I've ever read if you haven't read it yet what are you doing go read it now.
> 
> Also fun fact I wanted to be a dolphin trainer until I was in sophomore year of high school. The more you know.
> 
> [Come say hi](http://toomuchsky.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


End file.
